


Words of Silence

by forever_bright



Category: A Discovery of Witches (TV), All Souls Trilogy - Deborah Harkness
Genre: Daemon disaster Kit Marlowe, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:40:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28913250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forever_bright/pseuds/forever_bright
Summary: Kit attempts to work himself to death.
Relationships: Matthew Clairmont/Christopher "Kit" Marlowe
Comments: 9
Kudos: 20





	Words of Silence

**Author's Note:**

> That's right my friends, I am going to make this ship happen. 
> 
> (Any requests for them, drop me a comment.)

Kit had been lost in his words for four days now. It could be longer, maybe weeks, maybe all the centuries of the earth - he lost track of small details like time and food and breathing when the voices in his head were make raucous poetry, demanding he get the conversations down on paper or be driven (more) mad by the constant noise. Somewhere in his mind, he was aware that his back ached from hunching over the cramped desk in Matthew’s attic, that his fingers were black with ink and blood - where did it came from, he had no idea - and that if he moved, if he stopped writing, he’d fall into the abyss that that seemed to have opened up around his chair.

“Kit,” came the only voice that could penetrate his storm of inspiration.

“Hmm,” grunted Kit in reply, his quill barely pausing its progress across the page. 

“Kit,” said Matthew again, more sharply, and Kit turned his head a fraction, glancing up from under his hair.

Matthew stood in the doorway, framed by candlelight from the hallway behind him, his tall figure effortlessly elegant and lethal, even from a distance. Kit drank in the sight of him and it only fuelled the chatter in his head, the need to write about love and perfection and death.

“You’ve been up here for days,” Matthew pointed out and he took a step forward, sniffing the air slightly as he entered the room. He swam before Kit’s eyes, like a dream that you know would disappear if you reached for it. “You’re unwell.”

Matthew’s words meant nothing to him, forgotten as a phrase dropped into Kit’s head, the meter and the wording utterly perfect, and Kit’s gaze fell back to the page to write it down, cementing it in ink before it could fly away.

He forgot Matthew was there until fingers like soft ice landed on the back of his neck. Kit gasped and reared away. 

“You’ve got a fever,” said Matthew disapprovingly, clearly annoyed that Kit’s lack of health now affected him. Matthew disliked warm-blooded complications. “Stop writing.”

“I can’t,” croaked Kit, voice strange to his own ears, tongue covered in moss and bats in his eyes, and… and…

Everything began to fall away. 

Pain dragged Kit back to the chair, to the room and particularly to the feeling of Matthew’s fingers digging harshly into his hair. He blinked a few times, becoming more aware of his burning skin and the sweat covering his back under his thin shirt.

“All right,” he agreed and Matthew released his grip. Kit tried to drop his quill, but his cramped fingers refused to move and he used his other hand to pry the warm feather from his grip. The pain was beginning to sing now, the screech of it drove out the voices in his mind and left Kit stuck in agony as his muscles screamed and his skin burned. 

Kit tried to stand up. He had barely started moving when the world began to tip away again and Matthew’s grip on his arm was his only anchor.

“You’re bleeding,” sighed Matthew. “Kit. For God's sake.”

A blur of walls and steps and pain got Kit out of the attic and into Matthew’s bedroom. Kit’s back hit the cool sheets and he let his eyes close, exhaustion and delirium sliding over him like warm water.

He barely felt Matthew’s cold, nimble fingers pulling up his shirt, but then a flash of white hot agony scorched through him.

Kit yelled in protest as Matthew poked at the festering wound on his hip.

“When did you get this?”

“I don’t know,” Kit mumbled in reply, eyes still shut. The bed dipped as Matthew sat down next to him, and Kit could hear his frustrated sigh. 

“Let me guess, a tavern brawl? One that you started? You’re too quick to insult and too slow to listen.”

Kit wanted to reply with something witty and teasing, but he didn’t feel like himself. The words didn't come. 

“I’ll call for the doctor.”

Kit’s eyes opened and he groped for Matthew, gripping his arm and shaking his head. His sweaty hair stuck to his forehead and his blood was staining Matthew’s white sheets. Matthew stared down at him with a blank expression, but Kit knew him well enough to detect the hint of concern in his tense jaw.

“No doctor. I can’t- I’m not… .”

Kit was so close to the abyss today, he could peer over the edge of the cliff of his sanity. He didn’t know what he’d say or if the voices bouncing around inside his skull would be too obvious to hide. He couldn’t bare to see another soul, other than Matthew.

“You could die, Kit,” whispered Matthew, with a something not soft enough to be tenderness, but nevertheless sweet to Kit’s ears. “Be reasonable.”

“You can help me,” Kit breathed. He knew he was pushing his luck and he half-expected Matthew to dismiss him, to toss him out and leave him to die in the gutter. But Kit lived to test the limits of men's patience and he felt like he was going to die any second anyway.

He was too weak to keep his grip on Matthew’s arm and his fingers slid away, muscles twitching. The fever left Kit swimming inside his own head and he had to force his lips to mutter a miserable: “Please.”

Time slipped away from Kit again and it wasn’t until he sucked in a deep breath - the cold air racing into his chest, deep and alive - that Kit realised his mind was clear. His skin was wet with cold sweat and his side ached, but already the pain was leaving him. 

Kit raised his head. Matthew was inspecting his rapidly healing knife wound, still smeared red with Matthew’s blood.

Their eyes met. Matthew raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t tell anyone about this,” he instructed and he ran his thumb over Kit’s hip bone. Kit jerked the tiniest fraction and Matthew’s lips curled up. “And do try to look after yourself.”

“No promises,” said Kit and his eyes darted away. Clarity was providing space for embarrassment and Kit knew what a pathetic figure he cut, bloody and begging in Matthew’s expensive bed.

“Not good enough.”

Matthew’s voice cut like a sword and Kit sucked in another breath, feeling his gaze dragged back to meet the other man’s. They stared at each other. Matthew won.

“Alright,” breathed Kit. “Alright, I will.”

He sunk backwards as Matthew stood, the minimal candlelight quickly hiding his features. Kit closed his eyes again and felt sleep dragging him down, just as there was a sweep of cold lips on his forehead.

“Good boy.”

Then Matthew left and Kit fell into the blissful silence of his mind, with Matthew’s words filling all the dark corners usually haunted by ghosts and other broken things.


End file.
